“The train conductor. What did he say?”
“The—I don’t know.”
“You just read it. You know what he said.”
“So what? It doesn’t matter.”
“Exactly. So why keep it in the book? What about how you secretly wished to be someone else, someone with a different name.”
Alistair bristled. “That’s personal.”
Ben approached her.
“I know. I’m sorry. But why is it in the book? Why would the pages they sent me point out your name every time? That it didn’t fit or didn’t belong, or they couldn’t remember what you were called? Or you didn’t want it. I—I have nothing to offer this story but the fact that I’m a writer. Even if I never write another word, it’s what I am. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m in the book. A writer would wonder why someone would leave these loose threads hanging unless they’d
